A Work of Art
by S. Faith
Summary: Mark rediscovers a passion from his youth.  Movie universe.
1. Chapter 1

**A Work of Art**

Chapter 1 (of 4)

By S. Faith, © 2010  
Words: 20,595 (This chapter: 5,037)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary: Mark rediscovers a passion from his youth.  
Disclaimer: Isn't mine.  
Notes: Many thanks to the most excellent plotbunny breeder on the face of the earth. Any mistakes, typos, etc are purely my own doing.

* * *

It was beautiful.

The vista was clearly of the back garden, with the multitude of trees and the brick wall; it was evidently in the late evening based on the dark orange hues in the sky; it was late autumn given the lack of foliage on the trees. She held the picture in her hands, eyes scanning over the artwork, with a sense of disbelief. Why was this painting in the attic and not hanging on a wall in the house?

In the lower right corner, she noticed a scribble, a signature. It looked like it began with an M. She smiled. She had no idea Malcolm had an artistic bent.

She decided to bring the painting downstairs to ask Elaine about it. It was supposed to be a long weekend relaxing in the country, but Malcolm had asked his son to accompany him to Kettering for an errand—code for wanting Mark to drive without admitting he shouldn't do so anymore in such appalling late winter weather—and Elaine had asked her to pop into the attic to look for an heirloom quilt, which in the end Bridget had been unable to find.

"What do you have there, Bridget?" asked Elaine as she entered the room. "Doesn't look like Grandmother Wentworth's finest achievement."

"I couldn't find it," said Bridget. "I found this instead."

As she held it up to show her mother-in-law, a broad smile spread over the woman's face. "My goodness, I haven't seen that in years. Mark did that when he was ten, I believe."

She did not know which shocked her more: that this had been painted by a ten year old, or that it'd been Mark who'd done it. "Really?"

"Oh, yes," Elaine said. "Mark was very keen with a brush until he discovered he loved studying the classics then the law more. I don't think he's painted since he was sixteen."

"Are there more up there?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "He begged us not to hang them."

In all honesty Bridget felt like she had when she'd first learned Mark voted Tory; a little winded and a lot surprised. "But this one's lovely."

"He did not like that they were not technically perfect, in his words."

That sounded like Mark. She chuckled. "I'm keeping this, if that's okay."

"You're his wife," she said. "Of course you can keep it. Well. Don't worry about the quilt. I was just hoping to save a bit of time to have you look while I finished the tarts, but I'll just go take a peek later." She touched her daughter-in-law affectionately on the arm. "Thank you for looking."

Bridget loved the Darcys' country home, but frankly, she tended to bore easily, and the temptation to return to the attic to find the other paintings was far too strong. She crept up the stairs and back to the same area in which she'd found the first, and within a few minutes she found a polythene storage bag filled with watercolour paintings. Carefully she pulled them out and looked through them, a fond smile playing across her lips. They were bright and luminous and fresh even if they weren't technically perfect compared to the source, which no one would ever have known except for him. She thought they were delightful.

"Bridget? Are you really up there?"

She chuckled. "Yes," she called back. "Come up, I want to show you something."

She saw him appear up through the floor with a confused look on his face. "What are you doing?"

"Come here," she said with a smile. "I think you'll find this very interesting."

He came the rest of the way up into the attic, then made his way across the floor carefully until he was closer. He stopped in his tracks. "What are you—"

"Your mum says they're yours. Are they?"

…

It had been many years since he had seen what his wife was now holding; sheaves of Arches hot-pressed watercolour paper, on which he had drawn his brush over the surface with graceful deliberation. He hadn't really given it much thought at all since he'd laid the brushes aside to pursue his academic career with full force. As his eyes swept over the assortment of paintings, their flaws seemed that much more obvious to him.

"Yes," he answered eventually, holding them in his hands.

"You sound embarrassed," she chided, looking up to him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "They're really nice, particularly for a boy your age."

"I wasn't that young," he said.

"Your mother said you were sixteen when you stopped," she said. "That's hardly full-blown adulthood. I'm bringing them downstairs."

He knew better than to try to talk her out of it. "If you must."

"You're too modest."

"No," he said. "I'm too much of a perfectionist and I don't care for them."

She pursed her lips. "I think you're too hard on yourself," she said, "and I'm having the best of them framed."

He vowed not to criticise them anymore, as it would likely mean she'd not only have all of them framed, but try to get a gallery to show them.

A bit more digging and they found a sheet of blank paper that looked as clean and fresh as the day it was purchased, as well as his old paint kit, which, instead of being grubby and smudged with the different paint hues as one would expect from a child's set, looked brand new; Bridget even enquired as such.

"No, not new," he said. "That was mine." He indicated where he had neatly and precisely printed his name on the side of the case.

She opened it, and in fact the only evidence that the set had ever been used was that the tubes were crimped and the brushes were clean but had the faintest hint of some blue on one of the handles.

She laughed. "Mark, you really never were a child, were you?"

At one time this might have offended him, but now, he only smiled and chuckled as he held the box in his hand, looked at the small tubes of paint. That box had seemed so large when he was a child. He remembered fondly his mother telling him a very little bit of paint went a very long way…

"We could bring these too," he said. "You might like to give it a try."

"Me? Oh, heavens no," she said. "I don't have the skill or the patience."

He closed the box. "I wasn't the greatest at it, but enjoyed it very much."

Once they descended back into the house, she headed directly for their room, the stack of paintings nestled safely in the crook of her arm. She then proceeded to lay them all out onto the bed, then examined them studiously.

"Oh," she said. "I think this one is my favourite."

She pointed to one of a late summer scene, the hazy outlines of people crowded around a table. Prominent in the foreground was a child's swimming pool, and around the pool were some children. He smiled. One of the children was wearing a pale pink gingham sundress.

"Mine too." He pointed towards the sundress. "She should be familiar."

She turned quickly to look at him. "Don't tell me that's me."

He couldn't help but grin. "I got this particular paint set for my birthday."

"You painted this when you were eight?" she asked, astonished.

He chuckled. "It's not as if it is photorealistic," he said. "And it wasn't my first paint set."

"It's still lovely." She smiled tenderly. "And it's me."

"That," he said, pausing for effect, "is a redundant statement."

She blushed and playfully tapped him on the upper arm. "That's the one we're framing, Mark."

He put the closed paint kit on the bureau, then helped her to gather all of the paintings up from the bed to place back into their polythene bag for safe keeping. She made sure that the paddling pool painting was on the top of the stack. He resigned himself to the fact that the painting would soon be hanging somewhere in the house.

Not only did all of the paintings get brought home, but so did the paint kit. It sat upon the occasional table in the foyer, placed there when they'd arrived from Grafton Underwood on their way in, the sort of thing that he noticed whenever he dropped his keys in the tray in the evening or picked them up again in the morning, but never remembered to actually put away.

…

Thinking of Mark, of the paintings he'd done as a youth, and of the way the box of paints had not been placed into a box for storage, Bridget felt a smile creep across her face. She decided to pay a visit to an art store for some watercolour paper. She didn't know exactly why she desperately wanted to cajole Mark into taking up a brush again, but she did. Day after day, he was mired in procedure and rules. He needed an outlet for creativity, to just let his mind go free, to allow his eyes to direct his hand with little left-brain consideration.

She knew, though, that her suggesting such a thing out of the blue would never work. He could be very stubborn and set in his ways about some things, and for whatever reason, he preferred reading law journals or something equally work-related in his free time.

She would have to be subtle about it. She would have to make him think it was his own idea.

…

As the weather got nicer and spring approached, he thought more frequently about the paint set, but had had absolutely no time to delve back into artistic endeavours. He also had little inclination to try, because he knew that Bridget would hover over his shoulder to watch his progress, and there was little he hated more than pressure to unwillingly perform to an audience.

He arrived home shortly after Easter to find the set was finally gone from the foyer. He'd gotten so used to it sitting there that the table seemed bereft without it. He wondered if the housekeeper had simply gotten sick of seeing it sitting there, disturbing the pristine clean of the foyer, and wondered idly where she might have placed it.

He suspected Bridget was downstairs watching the telly; she liked to wait for him there. For once, though, he was not greeted by the sounds of news presenters or the canned laughter of old episodes of American sitcoms. Rather, she appeared to be playing something rather light and joyful, _Four Seasons_ by Vivaldi.

She was sitting on the sofa with a lap desk. Before her on the coffee table was his paint set, a plastic palette, a glass of water and a towel. She was hunched over the lap desk, but kept looking up and out the row of windows that provided a view of the back garden.

"What are you doing?" he asked; even as he asked it he realised how silly it was of him to have asked, especially since his question seemed to have startled her.

"I was painting," she said, turning quickly. "I'm not having good luck, though."

"Let's see," he said, coming around to sit beside her. She had not only put the paint on too thick in an attempt to layer, but the paper had clearly not been prepared in advance, and it was wavy and rippled from the application of water.

"It's terrible, isn't it," she said glumly.

"The trick to watercolours," he said, hardly believing he was saying it as he did, "is that the paper beneath needs to glow through for your light. If you want to build up colour, then acrylics or oils would be more for you. Actually, acrylics. You wouldn't have the patience for oils, I think." She scowled at him. He pointed to a muddy area. "You don't want to put white on top of green for a highlight. The paint just needs to be more dilute."

"Listen to you, like you know," she teased, clearly half-irritated at the lecture, but half-amused by the subject.

"I do know," he said. "Here, I'll show you."

Brush in hand, on an unsullied corner, he formed the shape of a circle with very dilute blue paint. Then, loading the brush with more pigment, he turned that circle into a sphere.

"See," he said. "The paper is the highlight."

She wasn't looking at the paper, but rather at him, as if he had just announced he was leaving her for a life with a travelling circus. "Maybe it's you who should be painting again, not me," she said.

Even after all of that time, the brush felt so natural in his hand; he was able to turn and manipulate it to do exactly what he wanted. "I don't know," he demurred.

"Oh, come on," she said. "What are you worried about? Obviously you haven't forgotten anything."

He laughed lightly. "Oh, I have, I'm sure," he said. He knew exactly why he was not keen to paint again, though. He did not want to try and fail when she had such high expectations. He also hated that impatient feeling when he should have been picking something up more quickly than he did.

"You're too hard on yourself," she chided. "Just do it. And if you don't want me to watch, I won't."

"Really?" he asked, extremely doubtful.

"Mark, I know how you are," she said, pursing her lips. "You get so frustrated and irritable when you don't get something right on the very first go. My watching will only increase that frustration."

He hadn't thought himself that transparent. "I don't have any paper prepared," he said. As he said it he knew he was fumbling for excuses.

"What?"

"Well, you see how your paper went all wobbly. You're supposed to wet the paper then fix it to a board so that when it dries it's all stretched out."

"Mark, you're just sketching. Enjoy it and worry about stretching paper later."

She took to reading in the chair opposite him. He decided to get another little scrap of watercolour paper and began to paint; he did not look beyond the sofa, however. He painted the curves and shadows of her form as she reclined there, nothing so detailed as her features or expression, and the proportion did not seem quite right to him, but she had been right; if he thought of it as sketching, as doodling, then it didn't bother him quite so much to get it wrong.

In the end, he was so pleased with what he had done, so proud of not having thrown it all down in frustration and stomped away, that he decided to show her. Her reaction was utter surprise. "We weren't sitting there more than an hour," she said. "This is _really_ nice."

"You flatter me."

"No, Mark, you flatter _me_." She smiled proudly. "This is really quite lovely."

He made a dismissive sound. "Let's make supper."

"Promise me that you'll keep it up," she said. "I think it's good for you to let go of your… logic and intellectual reasoning and just put colour on paper."

He smiled. "I promise. Though there is still some logic and reasoning involved, you know. You have to mentally calculate proportion and perspective."

At this she just laughed and gave him a hug. "You are adorable," she said into his collar. "Just do it, and enjoy it. Don't think about the process."

He was moved on several occasions in the next few weeks to try again, and she was as good as her word, not hovering over his shoulder and watching his progress. There were times when he had complete misfires—he was no prodigy with a paintbrush by any stretch of the imagination—but he did find his efforts were most successful when his lovely wife was the subject of his art.

…

"How do you feel about spending a couple of weeks in the country?"

The question from her husband startled Bridget from her thoughts as she looked fondly at Mark's painting from age eight, where it hung on the wall.

"What? Why?"

"My parents have decided to travel to Italy and I thought it might be nice to take some time away from the city."

It was summer now, and the thought of a summer holiday made her a little giddy. "What about work?"

"I'm due to take some time off, myself, and I find my schedule very easy to clear at present."

It amused her to think of Mark, once a borderline workaholic, say such a thing. "Why don't we go away too?"

"I don't want to go somewhere. I want to go to the country."

She burst out laughing.

"What I mean is," he said, "I don't want to have to travel or fly or deal with being surrounded by people I don't know. I just want you and me and some peace and solitude."

She mulled it over, studying his features; she too could use a break, but was not sure if her current schedule would allow her to take the time off. "When are they going?"

"They leave on Saturday," he replied. Five days from now.

"I'll have to see about work," she said. "Though I really like the idea."

He smiled. "Okay. No hurry. Well, by Saturday, obviously." He kissed her then continued on to wherever it was he was heading, probably to get ready for work.

She felt a smile creep across her face. She would arrange if not for time off then to work remotely. She would also pay a visit to the art store for more watercolour paper, and ensure that the paints and paper came with them on their holiday.

When he arrived home that evening she was able to give him the good news, that she had arrange the time off as she had hoped she could; she traded holidays with a co-worker who needed time off early in the autumn instead of now, and since Bridget had only signed up for early September out of necessity of getting it on the schedule, she was more than willing to exchange.

"Wonderful," he said with a broad grin. "It'll be nice to have time, just you and me."

"And the housekeeper, and the gardener," she quipped.

This made him chuckle. "The thing I like best about the two of them," said Mark, "is that they're so good at their jobs that I hardly notice they're there."

When it came time to leave on Friday, Mark took one look at the suitcases she'd packed and started to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"For what you're bringing," he said, "we could live there for a month. You do know they have a washing machine, don't you?"

"Am leaving my options open," she said with a defensive raise of her chin.

"Bridget, the pinnacle of our social appearance while in Grafton Underwood would probably be attending a picnic at the Alconburys'."

"Still," she said. "I just know the one thing I leave behind is the one thing I'll most want."

He offered no further argument, since he full well knew a drive back to London for the abandoned item would fall to him. The benefit too of having so much luggage was that she was easily able to stash the paint kit as well as the watercolour paper block she'd purchased, which would offer the convenience of loose paper with the best qualities of stretched paper without having to worry about the time-consuming and somewhat inconvenient process of stretching paper itself.

Dinner with Mark's parents was pleasant as always. His father told them he'd be driving Elaine and himself to Heathrow and parking the car in long term lot, but Mark would have none of it. "I'll drive you down," he said. "No sense in paying for parking for two weeks. When does your flight leave?"

"One in the afternoon."

With the drive to the airport, and the need to be there well in advance for an international flight, it meant that Mark would need to leave early in the morning, earlier than Bridget was likely to want to rise. He did not ask her to accompany him.

She smiled knowingly. It would give her time to unpack her surprise for him, and bring another item down from the attic that she'd recalled seeing there.

…

_Saturday_

The drive to and from Heathrow was uneventful by London standards for which Mark was grateful, because he hated to think how much more run down he'd have felt if traffic had been busier. He went into the house, looking forward to a tall glass of lemonade or iced tea and perhaps a book in the lounge. "Bridget?" he called upon entering the house. He got no response. He called her name again. Still nothing.

He wandered to the lounge, which was where he figured Bridget might have settled in with a book of her own, and subsequently had gotten so engrossed she didn't hear him. When he crossed the threshold into the room, though, he stopped dead in his tracks.

There, set up by the window, was the old wooden easel he remembered using when he was a young man. To the side was the paint kit and his array of brushes, and on the easel proper was what appeared to be a stretched canvas, but on closer inspection it was revealed to be watercolour paper with glue around all edges except for a very small section at the top.

"Surprise."

He turned around to see his wife beaming at him from behind.

"What's this?"

"I brought your paints," she said, "found this easel up in the attic, and bought you what the art supply store called a watercolour paper block."

He was not sure what to say. Although he appreciated the gesture, he hoped she did not expect him to carry on full tilt with it at that very moment like a performing monkey.

"You're welcome," she said, pursing her lips.

"Sorry, sorry," he said belatedly, going to her and taking her in his arms. "Thank you. It was very thoughtful of you, but I'm not in the mood at the moment."

"It's okay," she said. "When you are in the mood, it's there waiting for you."

He nodded then smiled, kissing her cheek.

He took to reading, his back against one arm of the sofa while she sat against the other, but time and again he found his gaze drawn to the easel. When he noticed she had rested her head against the back of the sofa, had drifted to sleep with a book on her lap in the indirect late afternoon summer sun, he decided to slip from the sofa, fill the reservoir with water, then began to lay down broad strokes of diluted colour to capture her form. As the paint dried he laid down slightly darker hues over the washes, and within a very short period of time he had something that was very recognisable as Bridget, even if it was just a rippled, impressionistic version of her.

She continued napping and even after she shifted in position, he dotted in some hints of details until he had what he thought was a pretty nice little study of his sleeping wife. With a smile, he took the brushes and the reservoir to the kitchen to clean them up, then returned them to their place. With a small amount of amusement he thought that with the painting implements where they were to start with, it almost looked as if the painting had manifested on its own.

He decided not to mention his endeavour to Bridget. He just knelt beside where she was sleeping on the sofa, and pressed a kiss to her lips. This woke her with a smile and she responded by putting her arms around his neck and kissing him back. This almost caused him to lose his balance, which made both of them laugh.

"I'm starving," she said. "What's on the menu for supper?"

"Hm," he said, helping her to stand. "What do you feel like having?"

She smiled. "I suppose pizza delivery is out of the question."

He burst out with a laugh. "We could barbecue some pork chops. My father just bought a brand new grill…"

"Oh, yum," she said. "Sounds excellent."

They made supper together out in the back garden with not only grilled pork chops, but grilled bell peppers and Portobello mushrooms, which they had with a delicious Sauvignon Blanc. As the sun drifted down towards the horizon, they reclined in drowsy contentment, sipping at their wine until the stars were plain against the velvet of night.

"I'm getting a bit chilled," she said quietly. "What do you say we head inside?"

He tightened his arm around her shoulders, pressed a kiss into her temple. "I say let's head inside." He heard her chuckle softly before she rose to her feet, took his hand and led him into the house and upstairs to their room.

After tender, reverent lovemaking, as they fell to sleep nestled together, Mark could only think what a wonderful idea it had been to take such a holiday.

…

_Sunday_

Morning seemed to announce itself in a much bolder fashion in the country. How Bridget had ever lived as long as she had in Grafton Underwood and ever got a decent night's sleep was a mystery to her even to this day. She would swear, if so asked, that the beam of sunlight targeted her square in the eye that morning. Once awake she could not fall back to sleep.

With a heavy sigh, she rose and went downstairs to make some coffee. As she passed by the sitting room, her eye was caught by the easel; specifically by the paper block, which was no longer pristine white and which was best seen from the hallway. Stunned, she stopped dead in her tracks and went into the room, then lifted the paper block up for a closer view.

She could only think he must have painted it while she had been napping the previous afternoon. As her gaze flitted over the surface, she felt emotion welling in her throat. While it was not photographic in nature and was more of a study than a finished painting, it perfectly captured the atmosphere of the room, the soft light of the late afternoon summer sun, the contentment of her slumber.

"Don't know what he's thinking, being so shy about this," she murmured to herself, placing the paper block back on the easel. Even as she said it, she realised she did know; it was so typically like him to be self-effacing.

She carried on to the kitchen and got the coffee in the French press to brewing, then popped some bread in to make toast when it was closer to finishing. To help pass the time a little, she decided that she'd sneak a cigarette while Mark was still asleep. She pushed open the window, reached for the cigarettes she'd hidden in the cupboard, pulled one out and lit it, inhaling deeply. It gave her time to think about their little holiday, how much she was enjoying it after only a day, and how thrilled she was to see Mark pursuing such a creative hobby. When the timer rang for the coffee she stubbed the ciggie out, ran the butt under the water before throwing it in the bin; she had learned her lesson in that regard after setting her trash bin on fire on more than one occasion.

She set the toaster on, then dug out a couple of mugs and poured coffee for herself and for Mark. As she topped up her coffee with milk, the acrid smell of burning bread hit her nose. She quickly went over and switched off the toaster, which spit forth the bread with an unpleasantly charred lower corner.

She frowned, irritated with herself. Toast was not something that was considered challenging to make. However, she decided it wasn't bad enough to warrant throwing the toast away, so she put some butter and strawberry jam on each of the slices and, along with the coffees, carried the tray upstairs.

Mark was still fast asleep when she entered the room. She paused just inside the door and smiled affectionately as she gazed upon his slumbering form. As she stood there, the scent of the strong coffee spread throughout the room; as it reached him he stirred then opened his eyes. When they fixed on her, he smiled sleepily.

"Morning," he said. "Waking me with thought vibes has proved ineffective, so you resort to coffee."

"I wouldn't say completely ineffective," she retorted, then grinned, taking the tray over to the bed as he pushed himself upright to take his cup.

"Ah," he said, observing the toast on the tray she'd set between them. "You've made breakfast."

She pursed her lips. "Yes."

"Don't need to look that way," he said. "I happen to love your toast." He picked up a piece and took a large bite. "I believe it's referred to in America as 'Cajun-style'."

Feigning offence, she reached over to playfully tap him.

"Stop it," he said, backing away. "You'll spill the coffee."

She sat back against the headboard, took her own coffee, and chose a slice for herself. "So why didn't you tell me about the picture?"

"Hm?" he asked, chewing a second bite.

"The painting." She bit into her own piece.

"Ah," he said. "You've seen it."

"It's lovely," she said.

"You're biased," he replied.

"And you're being overly modest," she said. "You've developed a good eye and a really nice technique, Mark. There's nothing wrong with appreciating a compliment on it."

He gave her a sidelong glance, but said quietly, "Thank you, Bridget."

"That's better," she said smugly, sipping her coffee then smiling at him again. "Yesterday was a really good day," she said.

"It was," he agreed, "and we've only just begun our little holiday." He laughed a little.

"What's so funny?"

"Just wondering how long it will take for you to get completely bored."

"Chuh," she said dismissively, sipping her coffee.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Work of Art**

Chapter 2 (of 4)

By S. Faith, © 2010  
Words: 20,595 (This chapter: 4,810)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
See Chapter 1 for details.

_

* * *

_

_Chapter 2_

It was a valid concern, Bridget's boredom; while she was no child in need of continual entertainment, he could well see her overtaken by cabin fever sooner rather than later in the country, a setting with far fewer social opportunities. She had her introverted moments, but she was much more of a social creature than he had ever been.

"So what do you want to do today?" he asked, raising a brow.

"I haven't decided yet," she said, cupping her mug in both hands, bringing her knees up. "Maybe we can take a walk. Have a picnic. I can read and you can paint."

He had to admit it didn't sound half bad. "Hm," he said noncommittally.

"Or," she offered, "we could finish breakfast and see what appeals."

He smiled. "I like the sound of that too."

They finished their toast and coffee, showered together and dressed, then struck out for a walk along the lane leading towards the heart of the town. Although the sun was shining the air was a cool, and the walk was quite enjoyable. They stopped at the pub for a bit of lunch, then walked back, hand in hand, taking a slightly different route.

"Oof," she said. "All this fresh air and exercise… I think I need a bit of a lie down."

He thought it a marvellous idea and joined her, though simply lounging in bed curled up with her was in some ways even better than sleeping. The cuddling led to kissing, tender caresses and happy sighs.

"Suppose we ought to think of dinner at some point," he murmured into her ear; he was spooned up against her back.

"Mm," she said drowsily. "Sometimes the need to eat is very inconvenient."

He laughed low in his throat, tightened his arm around her.

"Wish they had those meal-in-a-pill things like we were promised as children would exist in the future," she went on.

"And flying cars," he added.

"_Yes_, flying cars," she said somewhat indignantly. "I feel cheated."

"You would miss the taste of pizza though," he said, "and chocolate, and chicken pasty…"

"Stop it," she said. "You're making me hungry."

He continued, "And there's nothing at all appealing or romantic about taking one's flying car for a couple of food capsules."

"You have a point," she said with a sigh, then turned over, her guileless blue eyes meeting his. "I don't honestly know what I did without you."

It seemed such a grave statement given their light-hearted conversation of a moment ago. "You had fantasies of food capsules and flying cars," he countered, kissing the tip of her nose.

"I'm being serious," she said.

"I know," he said, "and I don't know why it matters, because you have me now."

She offered a small smile. "That I do," she said, reaching forward to kiss him fully.

Dinner could wait a little longer.

After dozing a bit, he rose from the bed, casting a glance back to where she reclined. He wasn't being biased, he was convinced of this; her body, bare and half-covered with the bed linens, really was beautiful. He took in the way the late summer sun flitted across her skin with a golden hue, the concave curve of her back, the convex bend of her backside as she slept with her arms around the pillow.

He regarded her for a few moments before she opened her eyes and caught him looking appreciatively at her. She smirked, but pulled the sheet to cover herself.

"That is just silly," he said. "My hands are intimately acquainted with every inch my eyes now get to enjoy. Why deny them the pleasure?"

Shyly she pushed the sheets back to where they were before, and then some, propping up on her elbows to further accentuate the sensuality of her position. "How's this?"

He did not answer with words, only a long and loving gaze in her direction. In all honesty it was something he could have stood to feast his eyes on for all time, the sun picking up flecks of gold in her hair and making her skin look warm and glowing. He sat on the edge of the mattress. "I have a question for you," he began quietly.

"Oh?"

"How would you feel," he asked slowly, "about capturing a moment like this in paint?"

A burst of laughter was not the reaction he was expecting. Her expression grew sombre, though, when she realised he was perfectly serious.

"Paint _me_?" she asked, flabbergasted. "In the nude? I'm not worth painting."

"I beg to differ."

She pursed her lips. "Mark, I would be mortified if anyone ever saw it."

"It would be for me. It's just… that was a lovely moment I don't think even a camera could capture."

She regarded him warily.

"It would be tasteful," he added. "I would never want to do anything that would humiliate you."

"Of course you wouldn't," she said softly.

"You can think about it," he said, reaching to run the flat of his hand against the soft skin on her back.

"Okay," she said.

The sound of his stomach rumbling with hunger snapped them out of the slightly serious moment, making them both chuckle.

"I think dinner is going to need to happen sooner rather than later," he advised.

…

As they prepared supper—a light pasta dish—Bridget contemplated what Mark had proposed to her. The thought of posing for a painting in the nude would have, under most circumstances, caused her to break out into a cold sweat. _But it's Mark we're talking about_, she thought, _a man who has never treated me with anything but love and respect._ If anyone could do her justice, particularly with his eye for texture and light in watercolour, it would be him.

Wryly she regretted her encouragement in pursuing this artistic endeavour. _You have no one to blame for this but yourself_, she chided mentally.

They watched a film on DVD together, snuggled on the sofa, then sat on the back patio and enjoyed the late sunset. As they prepared for bed that night she decided to tell him she'd made up her mind.

"You can paint me," she said, meeting his eyes by the proxy of the mirror.

He offered a small smile. "You're sure?"

"I'm reasonably sure you're not going to make a fool of me," she said light-heartedly.

"I'm glad you have such confidence in me," he said teasingly, slipping an arm around her shoulder and pecking her on the temple. "We can start tomorrow, if you like."

"Okay."

She tossed and turned that night thinking about what sort of pose he would have her strike for this painting; thought about her squishy stomach and hips; considered how terrifying her breasts might look without something to contain them, such that by the time morning came around, she had barely had any sleep at all.

"Morning, love," he said, his hand racing along the back of her leg and waking her as she slept on her stomach.

"Ugh," she said. "I feel hungover without the benefit of having been pissed last night."

"What's wrong?"

"Terrible time sleeping last night," she said. "I was thinking about your painting. I don't know if I can do it."

"Darling, it would just be you and me," he said.

"Yes, you committing my naked likeness to paper for anyone to see. You're practically the first man I've ever been intimate with that I didn't back out of the room to keep from seeing my bare bottom."

She heard him laugh under his breath. "Ultimately, darling, it's up to you," he said quietly, "but I had no intention of having you pose like a Playboy centrefold." His fingertips grazed along her shoulder.

"How would you know which poses a Playboy centrefold would even strike, hm?" she asked teasingly, closing her eyes.

"You know what I mean," he said. His caresses were putting her back to sleep. She tightened her arms around her pillow. "If you could just see what I'm seeing right now," he murmured. "The sunlight on your skin… it is to me one of the more perfect views this universe has to offer, and the one I'd most like to capture."

"So you want to paint the one thing I tried so hard to keep hidden," she said drowsily. "I don't know." She had to admit that the prospect of not being portrayed in a completely vulnerable frontal pose allayed her trepidation somewhat.

"I hope you change your mind," he said; then she felt him kiss her shoulder. "Go back to sleep for a while if you need to. I'll head downstairs and make some coffee."

"Okay," she said.

…

He watched as she fell back to sleep, watched as her breathing evened out to the slow and steady rhythm of slumber, before pushing the sheets back and rising from the bed. He slipped into his robe, paused at the door to take in the scene again… and realised that the palette of colours he had in his childhood paint set was insufficient for what he wanted to capture on paper.

Ideally an art store in London would have offered the best options for selection, but he was not about to drive all the way back just for paint. He thought perhaps a nearby town might have had a decently stocked art store. He dug up the telephone directory and began making enquiries. He had success; there was in fact an art store in Kettering with what they claimed was a wide selection of high quality watercolours.

He thought if he popped out he could be back before she awoke, so he finished his coffee, went upstairs to put some clothes on, wrote a quick note to say he'd gone out in case she woke while he was gone, and was on the road within twenty minutes of his telephone call.

When he got to the art store in Kettering, however, he was mightily disappointed. The paints there looked like they had been in stock since some time in the seventies, and were not what he considered of high quality. With a polite smile he retreated from the store, not saying a word, not wanting the little grey-haired granny behind the counter to know he'd been the one to call.

There was only one thing to be done.

Halfway back to London his mobile rang. He glanced down and saw that it was Bridget. He knew he shouldn't have answered while driving, but didn't want her to worry.

"Darling, I'm sorry, I thought you'd be sleeping longer."

"Where are you?" she said. "Your note said you were only going to Kettering."

"Sadly, Kettering did not have what I wanted."

She was quiet for a moment. "What _is_ your errand, Mark?"

"I needed… something."

"Mark."

"I wanted a bit more… range."

"Stop dodging the question," she said. "Range of what?"

"Colours."

"Please tell me," she said, "you aren't driving all the way back to London for _paint_."

"No," he said defensively. "Maybe a few more brushes too."

She didn't say anything.

"And a bigger paper block, I think."

"Mark," she said again.

"I want to get it right," he said.

After a moment, she started speaking again, but instead of more chastisement, it was to advise him from where she had purchased his smaller block. "They came highly recommended to me from every artsy type I asked," she said.

He was, in all honestly, pleased and surprised. "Thank you, love. I'll be home as soon as I'm finished."

"If I didn't know better," she said, "I'd say you were obsessed."

"I'm not," he said. "I'm simply dedicated to seeing this project through."

She laughed. "I'm a project, am I?"

"You know what I mean."

Through her residual chuckling, she said, "I think you owe me a special treat for such an insult."

"Yes, love. I'll see you when I get back."

He disconnected, then concentrated on the road.

…

As the time approached five o'clock, he still wasn't back from his jaunt to town; it wasn't that she was not capable of spending time on her own, but in a house the size of the Darcys, she felt a bit tiny rattling around. There had already been two false alarms; once when the gardener came to do the lawn, and another when the housekeeper came by to tidy up (whose presence really startled Bridget, as she had just emerged from the bedroom after having showered and dressed).

She had just about decided to phone his mobile again when she heard wheels on the drive outside. She went to the window. It was Mark's car. She went to the door to greet him, throwing it wide.

"I was just about to put the constables on your trail—" she began, but stopped short upon seeing him unloading a paper block at least a half-metre in width from the back seat of his vehicle. "Please tell me you don't intend on making my arse life-sized."

He chuckled. "Darling, it'll just allow more subtle detail, that's all. Come here. I need your help carrying things in." As she got closer, she realised she smelled something delicious.

"You didn't get my favourite pizza for supper," she said. "Did you?"

"And dessert," he said. "Chocolate cake with ganache icing."

"Oh my. Well, you'll need a bigger paper block for sure, after all of this."

She took the pizza and patisserie boxes in (intending on heading for the kitchen) while he put the paper block under one arm and slung a carrier bag from the art store over the other.

When he joined her in the kitchen, she put her arms around him and gave him a big kiss. "I missed you," she said.

He chuckled. "You only saw me this morning."

"I still missed you," she said, pouting.

He stroked her cheek. "I love you," he said.

"I should hope so," she teased, "if I'm going to let you paint me naked."

He raised his brow.

"What?" she asked.

"The sometimes inexactness of the English language, that's all," he said. "For a moment there I thought you meant you expected me to be naked while I painted."

"Oooh," she thought, a broad grin overtaking her features. "Now there's an idea."

"Or perhaps you meant," he said, "I could actually paint your naked body."

"No, no, I like your idea better."

That night after supper, he laid out the paints and brought the easel and the paper into their bedroom.

"Are you starting tonight?"

"Oh, no," he said. "It's the wrong sort of light. We need the morning light coming through the eastern window, not the more indirect light of the southerly one."

"But that's the light that inspired you."

"No, the evening light only reminded me how lovely you look in the morning."

"How early in the morning?"

"As early as it takes," he said.

She groaned and flopped down onto the bed. "Well, at least I'll have something nice to look at."

"Hm?" He stood upright.

He should well have realised that once the seed had been planted, thought Bridget, she was not likely to forget about it. "You'll be naked, too."

"Oh, I don't think so, Bridget," he said.

She pouted again. "Be a sport, Mark," she said. "It's the least you can do."

He pursed his lips. "I'm not making any promises."

"If I have to lie here motionless," she said, turning over to look at him, "you do realise you will have to keep me entertained."

"And do _you_ realise," he countered, "that it is extremely and dangerously distracting for a man like me to paint a beautiful, naked woman like you while naked himself?"

She fought a laugh, understanding at last. "How about a compromise?"

"What's that?"

"Shirtless."

He offered a reluctant smile. "Maybe." He joined her on the bed. "We'll see."

"So you said."

As they laid side by side, propped up and facing one another, he reached and cupped her face with his hand. "I found the most perfect shade of pale rosy peach to match your skin," he murmured.

"Change the subject, why don't you?" she said as he leaned in to kiss her.

"Gladly," he said just before he did.

It was not enough, however, to distract her from what she wanted, and when morning arrived and he brought them coffee far earlier than she was pleased with, she insisted he remain shirtless.

"Honestly," he said. "We're not newlyweds. You've seen me enough times."

"Tell that to the bed," she said. "It's seen more action in three days than in all the rest of its life. Besides, you've seen _me_ enough times, and I'm letting you paint me… while. I. Am. Nude." She stressed every one of those words.

"Point taken," he sighed.

After having breakfast, the sun had shifted, and she watched as Mark, in his pyjama bottoms and tank top, went to fill up the paint's reservoir with water. "If you have to loo, now would be a great time to do it," he said. "And take off your nightie. The light's not going to stay this way for very long, so we should get started as soon as possible."

She did as told, hating the brusque way he'd told her to disrobe, but when she came back she stared at him pointedly.

"You're not still going on about my being shirtless, are you?"

"It's such a small thing," she said, fluttering her lashes almost comically, which made him laugh.

"All right, fine," he conceded at last, pulling the tank up and over his head. Now, if you can just lie down across the bed on your stomach…" He helped to get her in the position he thought would be best for the way the light was coming in, and once he had her exactly the way he wanted her, he smiled so broadly it made her blush. "Perfect."

He got behind the easel, and for what felt like forever he simply stood there and regarded her. The next step was for him to take the biggest brush he had—two finger-widths wide—and start to put down broad strokes.

It was not long before she felt a little bored, since he was not inclined to speak and she had not thought to prop a book up before her. "Maybe I should have had you put on some music," she said ruefully.

"Tomorrow," he said, then carried on with painting.

…

She was on her stomach, her feet pointed towards the pillows but her toes pointed up in the air with ankles crossed; her arms embraced around a decorative satin pillow and the bed covers were mussed around her. She might have been nude, but her backside was somewhat obscured by her head, and the pillow's placement only revealed the side curve of her breast. The expanse of her gold-lit skin, however, was proving to be a challenge to capture.

He sighed a bit in frustration, working to layer on slightly deeper hues until the light had shifted so much he could no longer justify painting anymore. He was pleased overall with the results, but it was not near to being finished by any means. He rinsed off the brush, then set it down.

"Okay," he said. "You can move."

"Don't actually know that I can," she said, dropping down to lie flat on the bed, her arms extending out to her sides. "My shoulders ache and I don't think I can feel my feet any more."

"Poor darling. Well. At least I didn't paint any longer. I'd really wanted to."

"It's already been three hours," she said grumpily.

Astounded, he looked to the clock and saw she was right. "Oh, love, you should have said something. We could have had a break."

"I did," she said grouchily. "You told me to shush."

"I did at least let you put your feet down when I wasn't actively painting them."

"Thank goodness for small mercies. They might have started to shrivel up by now."

"I am sorry," he said, "but you're being a bit melodramatic."

"You try lying perfectly still for three hours in silence with nothing to do and a decidedly non-conversational spouse and see how you feel."

He sat beside her and began to rub her feet. "How about we take a nice hot bath? I'll rub your shoulders."

He felt the bed shift. "I like the sound of that." She pulled her feet from his grasp to roll over just as he turned to face her. "Can I look?"

"I'd rather you didn't until it's closer to being done." He stretched beside her. "You were a wonderful model," he said, "and an absolutely perfect subject for this painting."

She lowered her eyes demurely. "You're biased," she said.

"None of that," he said. "If I can't accuse you of bias for my paintings, you can't accuse me of bias towards my subject."

He saw a smile flit over her features. "Fine," she said, meeting his gaze again. "Now what about this bath?"

With a grin he reached forward and pecked a kiss on her lips. "Just be thankful I didn't want this for a pose," he said, his hand running over her hip; she was reclined, one knee bent, arms stretched over her head, her breasts pert and lovely.

"This view you will need to commit to memory if you want to reflect on it," she warned teasingly, bringing a hand down to playfully smack down on the one on her hip.

He kissed her again then rose from the bed, lest he be tempted further by her. "Let me run that bath for you."

"And then lunch," she called.

"Yes, love," he called back.

As he started running the water, adding a moisturising bubble bath into the water, he could only think in his mind of the process he'd been through that morning. Perhaps he should have done more of a quick comprehensive sketch instead of trying to get everything so perfect, then used that sketch to build the final painting along with her posing live. He was so deep in thought that the feel of her hand upon his shoulder startled him.

"I think it's plenty full," she said.

She was quite right. The bubbles were encroaching the top edge of the bathtub. He got to his feet and helped her to lower herself into the large bathtub before dropping his pyjama bottoms and joining her.

"What were you in a trance about?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing," he said casually. "Was just thinking about… well, the painting. Wonder if I might not have done more of a sketch today."

"I'm sure whatever you've done is wonderful," she said.

"You just don't want to have to pose any longer than you need to," he joked.

"I admit that is part of it," she said, "but mostly you should not second-guess your choices. You rarely do in anything else."

"Point taken, darling," he said, and she was right; he was not displeased with the results, so he should not be questioning how he got there. With that, he bade her turn around so that he could work on rubbing her shoulders, digging his thumbs into the knotted muscles. She made little sounds that told him he was hitting the right spot and that it hurt, but in a good way.

"Much better," she said, relaxing back into him. "And we're supposed to rise and be productive human beings now?"

He chuckled. "Well, as productive as two people on holiday are likely to be."

She turned over in the water and pecked a kiss on his lips. "I can stand that kind of productive."

As they rose from the tub, as he patted her down with a cotton towel, he found himself studying, almost memorising, her back and bottom. He would have to send her to bed early, he realised. It would not do to miss the light or for her to look tired.

"What?" she said with a hint of suspicion in her voice.

"Just planning our day a little in my head," he replied. It was, after all, not untrue.

…

"Mark," she said. "It's not even dark yet."

"But if we're going to get up with the sunlight," he said, "we ought to go to bed accordingly early."

She fought a yawn with all of her might, which would have only served to make his point. "But Mark. Really. Eight-thirty?"

"I didn't say we would march right upstairs and fall to sleep," he said. "We could read a bit, or talk, or cuddle a little…"

"Oh," she said. "We can discuss what to add so that I'm not bored rigid."

"Being bored rigid might help the process," he teased.

"If we don't schedule at least one ciggie break, I—" She stopped dead, forgetting for a moment that he thought she'd given up.

He only raised a brow. "Now what would my wife want with a ciggie break when she's told me again and again that she's quit?"

"Oh, but I have," she said smoothly, getting up onto her toes to give him a kiss. "I was just speaking hypothetically."

He tried not to laugh, but failed at hiding his efforts. He wrapped his arms around her, looking down at her through his lashes. "You're a terrible liar," he said. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead. "And I'm rather glad for it." He stepped back. "Come on, love. You'll be glad to have turned in early when the alarm goes off."

A cold foreboding settled into her stomach. "What time is the alarm set for?"

"Five-thirty."

"Mark," she said, horrified. "I don't even get up that early when I'm working!"

"You're missing a whole other world," he said, strolling toward the stairs to the second floor.

"I've created a monster," she muttered to herself.

She knew the alarm would be sounding whether she went to bed at nine or at midnight, so rather than sabotage herself she retired when he did. She fell to sleep surprisingly quickly watching him read by the bedside lamp.

It did not mean she welcomed the buzz of the alarm when it began bleating as early as it did.

After a moment of coming down from the shock and adrenaline rush, she wondered why he had not hit the button to stop it. When she turned over, she realised that Mark still snored away softly.

Smirking, she was half-tempted to switch it off completely, turn over and go back to sleep, but the temptation to wake him and be smug about it was greater. She reached over him—he still did not wake, which was concerning—and slapped the snooze bar.

"Mark," she said in a slight hush, then realised the point was to wake him, so repeated herself at full volume, "Mark!"

Blearily he began to blink, slowly turning his head towards her. "Yes, Bridget, what is it?"

"Time to wake up, Mr Early Bird," she teased. It surprised her how awake she felt despite the hour and the lack of coffee.

"What? But I didn't hear—" He turned towards the clock and saw the time. "Oh, I guess you must have gotten it."

"Yes," she said, drawing out the word. "Rise and shine. Time to paint."

"Had a terrible time falling asleep," he said. She thought maybe she'd won, but to her surprise he kicked back the sheets. "Nothing to be done about it. I'll just go make some coffee."

"But Mark," she said. "Aren't you sure you don't want to sleep a little longer?"

"No," he said. "What kept me up was thinking about painting." He got to his feet, went over and put on his robe. "You can stay up here if you like—I can bring it to you."

"No _way_," she said quickly, then amended, "I mean, no, no, I'll join you."

Pushing herself up out of bed, she reached for her robe and followed him downstairs where they made some coffee and had breakfast. As she ate and sipped her coffee she was determined to be the perfect painting model.

Unfortunately, the coffee had other ideas.

"Mark?" she asked about forty-five minutes into their session.

"Mm," he said, which she supposed was his way of asking what she wanted.

"I have to use the ladies."

He did not respond.

"Mark," she said again with a little more emphasis. "I am having a real issue here."

He looked up to her. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

"Yes," she said. "I have to go."

"Go where?"

She sighed. "To the loo."

"Oh, sorry." He set the brush down and went over to help her stand.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Didn't think the coffee would go through me that fast."

"You know what they say. You can only rent coffee."

She giggled, then padded over to the loo and closed the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Work of Art**

Chapter 3 (of 4)

By S. Faith, © 2010  
Words: 20,595 (This chapter: 5,191)  
Rating: T / PG-13 (Very strong T)  
See Chapter 1 for details.

_

* * *

Chapter 3_

He never got tired of that view. It was a silly, almost juvenile thing to think about, the shapely form—more precisely, the lovely backside—of his lively and beautiful wife, but then he chuckled to himself, cleaned the brush of paint, and laid it down. That he could still think such things of her after such a stretch of married bliss was, he was convinced, a very positive thing.

He had made such good progress in the short time he had been painting that he felt comfortable taking a break, too, and in considering how much he loved the rosy tint of her skin, the soft, drowsy expression on her face after making love, he decided in that moment exactly how he wanted to spend that break time. He shimmied out of the tank he'd been wearing as well as the pyjama bottoms, then stood near the bathroom door so that when she walked through it, he could take her by surprise.

When she came through the door, reached out and took her shoulder. She gasped, as startled by his grasping her as she must have been in seeing he was not where she'd left him. "Mark, what—"

She stopped speaking when he pulled her up to him and kissed her.

"Oh," she said as she broke from the kiss, as he walked her towards the bed. "You're obviously not ready to paint again in the near future."

"Indeed not," he said throatily, confirming what his nakedness must have already suggested.

With her held tightly in his arms they tumbled upon the bed and, with a passion usually reserved for just after long periods apart, they brought one another to a rather enthusiastic and vocal climax.

"I'm not sure where that came from," she said, panting for air afterwards, "but whoo."

He chuckled quietly, agreeing wholeheartedly. He leaned over her again and gave her an open-mouthed kiss her on neck, grazing his teeth over the skin.

"Careful," she said. "I'm sure you actually do want to paint again at some point."

As much as he loved indulging himself physically with her, she was right. He placed a delicate kiss on the same spot on her neck, then rolled back and onto the pillow, gazing lovingly down upon her reposing form; hair splayed upon the pillow, eyes closed, mouth set in a slight twist of a satisfied smile.

"I wish I were fast enough a painter to capture the beauty of this moment," he said.

"Mmm, never gonna happen," she murmured, cracking open an eye to peer at him, but with no less of a smile.

With great reluctance he pushed himself up and off the bed. "Well, darling," he said, "what do you say to taking your position and we get started again?"

She giggled, rolling around to the prescribed place on the bed. "I presume you mean for painting."

"Yes," he said, flushing with embarrassment, inexplicable given the carnal intimacy they had so recently shared. He slipped into his pyjama bottoms then went back to the easel. He turned to her and found her looking every bit as ravished as he'd hoped, which would be perfect for the details of her face.

"You didn't put your tank back on."

"I thought I'd give you an extra special treat," he said with a smirk as he started painting again.

He added some darker tones for shadows, finishing that up just as the light waned; he then decided to work on some of the details of her hair and the drape of the sheets from memory while she got up from the bed to stretch, then visit the loo once more.

"I can't see it yet?" she asked upon her return.

"Not yet." He dabbed water from the brush, preparing to store his materials. "You wouldn't want me to read something of yours that was only half-finished, would you?"

"Hm, point taken," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. He stopped what he was doing to fix his eyes upon her. "What do you want to do today?"

"Getting bored already?" he joked, taking the reservoir to the bathroom to dispose of the water.

"Ha, ha," she said as he strode back to his easel. "No, I just wondered if we ought not to get the inevitable out of the way."

He drew his brows together.

"My mother," she said. "You didn't think we could get away with two weeks in Grafton Underwood without her, did you?"

He chuckled. "You sound so morose."

"Mark, you know my mother," she said. "I love her but she can be so over the top."

"Why not let's give her a call, then?" he said, coming back to her to put his arm around her shoulders and kiss her on the hair.

She smiled. "Okay."

They dressed and headed downstairs towards the kitchen, where the housekeeper, an older woman from Kettering called June, was running a sponge mop over the floor. "Oh, good morning," she said, a smile crinkling her cheeks. "Almost afternoon," she added.

He glanced to the clock. It _was_ nearly noon. He had been so wrapped up in his painting that the whole morning had gotten away from him. "Morning, June," he said. "Just down for a spot of lunch. Busy morning." Suddenly he realised he did not want his painting setup to be disturbed. "By the way, don't worry about our room. We'll take care of it later."

"Oh," she said, seeming a bit surprised. "I really don't mind."

"No, no, it's all right."

"If you insist."

"It's all right to come in?" asked Bridget.

"Oh, the floor? Yes, of course. Should be dry on that side already."

"Thanks," she said with a smile, padding across the floor, wincing a bit.

"All right, love?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm a bit sore from holding that position."

The unexpected and loud sound of the mop handle clattering to the floor startled the both of them. "So sorry," said June, her skin a fierce shade of red as she scrambled for the mop. "I'll leave you to your lunch, and I'll give the bathroom a once-over."

Once June was gone, they fixed themselves sandwiches. Bridget started to chuckle to herself.

"What's so funny?"

"I just realised why June was so flustered."

He raised his brows then waved his hand encouragingly.

"Think about what I said, Mark," she said. "Holding a position? And we just came downstairs?"

Mark snorted dismissively. "Bridget, you can't ascribe your dirty mind to a lovely granny from Kettering."

"Grannies have dirtier minds than you think," said Bridget.

…

After eating their sandwiches, Bridget rang up her mother, who was thrilled to hear they wanted to come over for supper. "I'll make your favourite, Bridget," Pam chirped excitedly. "You know we always love seeing you."

She smiled. "I know, Mum," she said, feeling guilty for her earlier thoughts. Her mother may have annoyed her to end at times, but she did mean well, and she loved her daughter unconditionally.

"Well, it's set," said Bridget to Mark upon hanging up. "Hope you have your mouth fixed for chicken and new potatoes."

He smiled. "I'm sure I'll enjoy it. I always do."

They spent some time tidying the bedroom. So that she would not see the painting, he carefully draped a clean sheet over the easel. She pouted in her disappointment; she really did understand his not wanting her to see, but curiosity was overwhelming her. They made the bed, cleaned in the bathroom, gathered up the laundry, even ran the electric broom over the carpet. "June would be very proud of us," said Mark as he hoovered.

They took a quick shower then dressed again to head over to her parents'. Entering the house she was overwhelmed by the delicious scent of roasting chicken. Her father met her at the door and gave her a big hug.

"Ever so glad to see you, my dear," he said. "When your mother said you two were coming over for supper I was so pleased."

Guilt overcame her again, this time because their visits to Grafton Underwood, to her parents, were few and far between. "I'm sorry, Dad," she said.

"Sorry?"

"That we don't come more often."

He smiled, clapping Mark on the shoulder affectionately. "You're here now."

It was one of the more sedate evenings with her mother that she could recollect. Not once did she get an earful about wondering when a baby would come, gossip about the Enderbys' youngest or her latest irritation with Una. The four of them had a very enjoyable supper, and when her father invited them to play cards, she agreed, even though she was terrible at it. After several rounds of Rummy between bites of raspberry pavlova and sips of tea, they departed for the night.

"I need more evenings like this," she said after they'd gone.

"Like what?"

"With my mother, being sane. Being normal."

He chuckled, running his fingers down her back as they got to the car.

"I only mean that all of the years of—"

"I know what you mean," he said, still amused. "You feel the need to counteract all of the aversion conditioning."

She grinned ruefully. "It sounds really horrible when you put it like that."

"It would," he said, "to someone who doesn't know your mother."

"If you weren't driving," she said, "I'd pop you in the arm."

"You know what I mean. I love your mother but she can be very…" He drifted off.

"Yes," she said with finality. "I know."

Upon returning to the Darcys', Bridget realised just how sleepy she felt. She headed for the stairs up to the bedroom; Mark, however, had continued on towards the kitchen.

"Where are you going?"

"Was going to have some wine, sit out and enjoy the warm night."

"Mmm," she said. It sounded lovely, but that alarm going off so early was a definite deterrent. "We should go to bed."

He looked thoughtful. "Yes, you're right. Probably a good idea. We need to be up early."

"Mark!" she said.

"What? You're right."

"I expected you to put up a bit of a fight."

He smiled, then laughed. "If you insist."

After pouring two glasses of wine, they took a seat on the bench in the back garden; he rested his arm along the back and she sat against him. "It is beautiful out here at night," she said, staring up into the stars, sipping at her glass, leaning into his warmth.

"I particularly like the quiet," he said, kissing her on the head. "Think you would ever want to leave London for this on a more permanent basis?"

"Mmm," she said noncommittally; with the wine and him so close, she didn't want to agree to anything she might regret later.

After finishing the wine, with his arm about her, they went up and to their bedroom. Upon entering the sheet-covered easel startled her at first, looking like a spectral apparition. When he flipped the light switch on, she laughed in her relief.

They snuggled together beneath the sheets. Her eyes went to the ghostly form as she drifted off to sleep.

It was during a midnight trip to the loo that she was tempted to look under the sheet and at the painting. With stealth and a ludicrous tiptoe through the bedroom she went over to the easel and drew the cloth back. Unfortunately it was too dark to really make any detail out; she could see that there were darker tones on the right side of the painting, where the shadows fell to her left as she posed, but it was all shades of gray to her dark-adjusted eyes.

Mark turning over in bed startled her, and she let the cloth drop back down, her heart racing a bit. She realised it was for the best. She did not want to have to feign surprise when he declared it finished.

As she crawled back in beside him, he instinctively reached to spoon up to her. She smiled and sighed, falling back to sleep with ease.

…

The next few days followed a remarkably similar groove: up early for coffee and breakfast, painting until about eleven, then showering and descending for the day's events. They waved and said hello to the gardener on Saturday, who waved back and smiled. They ran into June again, too, as they exited the bedroom after painting, which was unfortunate in that it made Mark think about Bridget's observations and comments on the state of grannies' minds, dirty or otherwise.

As for the painting, he was very pleased with it. It was not by any means photographic or realistic, and the level of detail was by no means fine. He wondered if he wasn't labouring over it a little too long, but reminded himself that slow and steady would win the race every time. The extreme care and pace he took to be careful was because it was difficult to undo a mistake with watercolours, so he'd tended towards less dilute colours and was working it up to an extremely multilayered painting, an effect with which he was quite pleased.

On Sunday, there was in fact a picnic at the Alconburys' (of which Bridget's mother had been careful to remind them), so they dressed and went. It was a slightly overcast day, so Mark did not feel that he was missing out on prime painting time, anyway.

"What are you looking so smug about?" she asked between nibbles on her potato salad.

"Nothing," he said, sipping his wine. "Fresh air, intermittent sun, good vintage of wine… and the company of my beloved wife."

She smiled. "If it were a brightly sunny day, would you be looking quite so smug?"

"My little Bridget," came a voice, pissed as usual. Geoffrey. He leaned over her shoulder and pecked her on the cheek.

"Uncle G," she said, rolling her eyes as she looked back to Mark.

"And Mark, the lucky fellow," he added, looking over the table towards him. Mark offered a smile. "And what have you two been up to out here in Grafton Underwood? Been here a week, and we've hardly seen you, I don't know… working overtime on starting that family?"

"We've got a whole crop planted in the back garden and being carefully tended to as we speak," said Mark coolly. He saw Bridget purse her lips in order to suppress the laugh he knew was bubbling there.

"Oh ho," said Geoffrey. "Well done, Mark." He waggled his brows, lifted his drink, and wandered away.

It was not until Bridget made mention much later as they walked around the party that everyone had been coming up to her and asking after her well-being that it began to occur to Mark that perhaps Geoffrey had not understood his comment to be a joke. This was confirmed when Pamela Jones rushed up to them looking very offended.

"Bridget!" she said. "I have to find out from Una Alconbury?"

"Find out?" Bridget asked. "Find out what?"

She looked incredulous that Bridget could make any mistake as to what she was referring. "That I'm going to be a _grandmother_?"

"You aren't," said Mark before Bridget could escalate the conversation into further hysterics. "I'm afraid Geoffrey Alconbury does not understand the finer points of sarcasm whilst pissed."

Now she looked disappointed that she was not in fact going to have a grandchild in the near future. "Oh," she said.

"Please don't ask why not," Bridget said with a sigh.

"I wasn't," said Pam huffily, though it was perfectly plain even to Mark that that was what she was thinking.

"Mum," said Bridget, "if I were, and when I am—" She shot a look to Mark. "—you would be the first to know."

She smiled a little, lifted her chin in a familiar smug way. "Thank you, Bridget," she said, hugging her daughter, then turning to hug Mark too, filling his nose with her strong scent. When she reared back, though, she seemed almost indignant. "I still want to know why not, though. You're not getting any younger, Bridget, and I'm sure Mark wants to be able to hold his own babies."

"Mother!" she said. He held in his own horrified reaction.

"Come, darling," said Mark calmly. "Let's have some more wine, maybe a bit of a snack."

After they departed towards the impressive food spread, Bridget took his hand and gave it a squeeze. "She's obviously mental," said Bridget.

"That's no big secret," he murmured.

"I mean about you," she said.

He looked to his feet as they walked.

"I know her comments wound," she said. "I have learned to take them in stride—a hard-won battle—but you haven't dealt with them nearly as long as I have."

It hadn't really bothered him too much, but he was glad to know she didn't think of him as a pensioner. "Oh, so you don't think I'll have to juggle a baby and a walker at the same time?"

She smiled, then laughed.

He poured her another glass of wine, but abstained from drinking himself, as he suspected she would want to go soon. He was right.

"I've had about all I can take of floral two-pieces and Pimm's," she said.

He chuckled low in his throat. "I figured that was about all you could stand," he said. "I was just reaching my limit, too."

After they finished the small plates of snacks they'd fetched, they began making the rounds and saying goodbye. Her mother protested that they shouldn't leave yet, that they only just got there. "And besides," she added, "what else have you got to do out here?"

"We've been relaxing," he said. "Something we don't get to do enough."

"And, you know, Mark's been—"

He knew exactly what she was going to say and cut her off before she completed her sentence. "—I've been reading a very good book," he completed. "And I'm almost finished. So I'm eager to return to it."

"A book," sniffed Pam. He was sure she knew it was a lie. "Which book could be more entertaining than a lovely summer day?"

_Hell_, he thought. "Something Bridget loaned me," he said quickly to cover his obvious fib. "Don't read much for pleasure so it's been nice."

"Oh?" She turned to her daughter. "So what's this book then? Something I'd like?"

"Maybe," she said. With a smirk, she continued, "It's about a man who decides to take up painting—"

"We should go," he said. "See you soon."

As they left the party, Bridget was giggling. "Oh, Mark, honestly. Would it be so bad if people knew you were painting again?"

"If they know I'm painting," he said, "they would want to see what I was working on. And as I recall, you really didn't want anyone else seeing it."

Her face fell. "I suppose you do have a point."

It was his turn to chuckle.

…

She sincerely hoped he considered this painting finished soon.

Yesterday he was on a real roll; he barely spoke two words to her all morning, so focused was he on dabbing the brush on his paper with obvious deliberation, his eyes darting up then down again to more effectively capture what he saw.

"Mark?" she asked. He did not appear to hear her. "Mark!"

"Hm," he said, his brown eyes not lifting from the page.

"Are you painting every strand of hair individually?"

"Yes," he said very seriously, then raised his eyes to look at her at last. She could see his eyes crinkle as if he were smiling, though she could not directly see his mouth.

"I don't know if you realise this," she said, "but sitting this still for this long is pretty boring."

"You never chose a book," he said.

She curled her lip. "I didn't find one I liked. And you won't let me listen to my iPod."

"The headphones would interfere."

"And you're not talking to me."

"I most certainly am," he said.

"I meant for ninety-nine percent of this morning," she said.

"This would have been a perfect opportunity to practise meditation," he said drolly.

"If you're not careful," she said, "you'll be meditating as to why you're sleeping alone."

He leaned to the side with a grin playing on his lips; he knew that she was not serious. "Fine, sleep on your own," he teased. "And when you get freaked out by being by yourself at two in the morning in this huge house, I don't want you crawling up next to me on the sofa."

"On the sofa," she snorted. "_Right_. With twenty bedrooms in this place, like you'd really sleep on the sofa."

"I might," he said with mock haughtiness as he carried on painting.

"See, this is better," she said.

"What is?"

"Talking."

"Better than silence, you mean?"

"Yes."

"If I lose my concentration, put the wrong colour down in the wrong place, you might not think it's better."

"I'd better shut up then," she said, "but feel free to talk to me when you're not mired in paint."

He smiled again, his eyes intent on the paper before raising them to look at her once more. "Well. I think that's it."

"Whew," she said, lowering her feet, dropping down to rest her cheek on the duvet. She turned over then stretched, heard him swishing the brush in the water, then heard him set the brush down. "Done for the day."

"No," he said. "Done, full stop."

She stopped, sat up quickly, then turned to him again. "_Done_ done?"

He nodded. "At least I think so."

"Oh, bollocks, I'm sure it's lovely," she said. A realisation dawned upon her. "Ohh, you said I could see it when it's done. Can I see it now?"

"I'd prefer to wait, if you don't mind," he said. "Let me walk away from it for a while, make sure I'm happy with it."

"I do mind," she teased, "but I understand, I guess. I know what a perfectionist you tend to be. I bet that painting was really finished three days ago."

He pursed his lips slightly. "You're on to me," he said, touching the paper then putting the sheet over the easel to conceal his work again. "It's true. I just wanted to stare at your bare bottom a bit longer, while torturing you into sitting perfectly still."

"I knew it," she said, looking at him over her shoulder, striking a coy pose.

"If you're not careful," he said, "I'll start painting number two."

She smiled, facing him fully. "Come here."

He dried off the paintbrush with a towel, set it down again, then sat beside her on the bed.

"I'm very proud of you, you know," she said.

"You haven't seen it yet."

"While I'm sure I will love it," she said, "it doesn't matter what it actually looks like. I'm proud that you reclaimed this creative side of yourself, were brave enough to give it another go."

She watched that small, modest smile of his work its way across his lips as he looked down to his hands. "I should wash up," he said upon noticing pigment on his fingers and knuckles. She recognised it as embarrassment on his part; it was a mystery to her why he was still so self-conscious about everything he did, as if not getting it absolutely perfect on the first try was tantamount to abject failure.

She reached for his hand, took it in hers, and brushed a kiss across the dried paint on his knuckles. "You're welcome."

He chuckled low in his throat, looking to her again. "Thank you."

She dropped his hand. In a quick movement she got up onto her knees, put one arm around his shoulders, one hand on his cheek, and kissed him as she pushed him back onto the mattress. At first she could feel him chuckling into her mouth, but in no time at all amusement was replaced with passion as his hands moved down over her bare body.

She was grateful for the fact he was wearing only pyjama bottoms and a tee shirt; the elastic waist only made them that much easier to push down. It was not as if he had lost a whit of his appeal to her, but there was something about this newfound artistry that she found especially erotic. Some special fire was burning in him as well; with vigour he responded to her touch, grasping her hips forcefully as she climbed atop him, pulling her down hard against him. Her cries escalated with each thrust forward, his fingers pressing forcefully into her skin, driving her down onto him.

With laboured breath she found her release, but for his sake kept moving until she was sure he'd had his. Only then did she stop, lean forward to rest upon his chest, sighing contentedly. His arms encircled her and as she lifted her face to his, he kissed her.

"Don't know if I've said so lately," she whispered, kissing his chin, "but I love you." She moved a little to the side, resting her head on the pillow next to his.

"My beautiful Bridget," he murmured, tracing his finger over her cheek, smiling sleepily. "My wife… my muse."

She leaned forward and kissed him again, this time sweetly, before resting her head down once more. His eyes seemed at that moment to fix on something further down her body, and he smiled, then chuckled.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"I just finished painting your bottom," he said, "and now I've gone and painted your bottom." His hand went down to her arse and patted the curve there.

"What—?" She turned to look and could not help but laugh too. There on the skin of her hip and bottom was the distinct outline of crimson and cobalt paints, those which had been on his fingers prior to their lovemaking.

"Sweat must have rehydrated it," he said, still chuckling. "Well, I did say I needed to wash up."

"Well, it's certainly not going to kill me," she said, lying back down. She then drew her brows together. "It's not going to kill me, is it?"

"Of course not," he said, closing his eyes. "Else I'd be doomed."

She watched as her lovely, painterly husband drifted into a well-deserved sleep.

…

He hadn't realised quite how much the whole process of creation had taken out of him until it was over. He did still want to give it a little time before declaring it finished, before letting her see it, but he was pretty confident that he wouldn't want to change a thing. After a most gratifying romp with his wonderful wife, he felt that taking a nap was completely understandable and acceptable.

A sudden sound snapped him from slumber. He opened his eyes a little and to his dismay saw Bridget slowly lifting the corner of the sheet he had draped over the easel. Feigning sleep still, he barked, "Bridget."

"Yes?" He heard the fabric drop down again.

He looked at her at last, and tried not to laugh. There she stood, naked, sheepish, obviously caught red-handed, a giant ruby-coloured thumb print on each bare hip. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said. "Just, um, going to the loo."

"The loo's over there."

She sighed, caught in her obvious lie. "I just wanted a little peek."

"I asked you not to," he said. He pushed himself up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, sloughing off the pyjama bottoms and pulling off his tee. "Come on. Let's go clean ourselves up. It's bothering me that you look like you've been bruised."

She smiled. "How long?"

"What?"

"Until you look at it again and deem it finished," she said. "You know it's going to drive me crazy."

He chuckled, slipping his fingers along her waist to walk with her to the bathroom. "Yes, I do," he said. "After supper. I'll come and look at it after supper, and if I don't want to change anything, then I'll show it to you. Do you think you can last until then?"

She gave him an exaggerated pout. "I guess I'll have to," she said. "Oh, I'm so excited to see it."

He was going to make a comment about how he hoped she would not be disappointed, but he realised it served no purpose to voice his doubt to her again and again. He only smiled, reached to turn the water on, then pulled her under the hot stream with him.

As it had been for six out of the last seven days, they dressed and headed out to go downstairs just in time for lunch. "I'll miss our sessions," he said as they emerged from the bedroom. "I know they were a bit hard on you, but you did wonderfully."

She chuckled. "Maybe I missed my true calling."

"No," he said. "I wouldn't want you doing this for anyone else."

The afternoon passed quickly, more so than he would have liked. June was about doing light housework and they could hear the gardener outside trimming the hedges. Before he knew it they were fixing supper and she was staring at him with a crooked smile.

"I haven't forgotten," he said proactively.

"I was just checking."

After eating she eagerly volunteered to clear the table, insisting he head upstairs to take a second look at the painting. He hardly felt as if enough time had passed to see the painting again with fresh eyes, but in the end, the painting would be seen by no one but the two of them, so it only mattered if he thought she would like it. He knew he already did.

He pulled back the sheet and gazed upon his work, and he had to admit he was not dissatisfied. He knew that the technical inconsistencies would not be evident to anyone who hadn't seen her posing. The contrast between light and shadow was more than sufficient—he could see it when he squinted his eyes—and the likeness he captured, while not perfect, was definitely recognisable as Bridget. Particularly the expression.

He took in a deep breath. It was the moment of truth.

He went to the threshold of the bedroom and was about to call her name when he realised she was hovering at the top of the staircase with a sheepish smile.

"You're a little optimistic, aren't you?"

"You were about to come for me, weren't you?"

He had to concede he was. "Come in and have a look."

He watched her get nearer to the easel with the slow pace of an initiate approaching a holy relic. As she circled around, as her eyes lit upon the painting, he watched her expression carefully. Her gaze did not remain still, but looked from one section of the painting to the next, then onto another. When she looked at him at last, he could see the faintest hint of a smile, even as her lower lip trembled, even with her eyes brimming with moistness.

"Well? What do you think?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A Work of Art**

Chapter 4 (of 4)

By S. Faith, © 2010  
Words: 20,595 (This chapter: 5,566)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
See Chapter 1 for details.

_

* * *

Chapter 4_

She did not have the faintest idea how to respond. Her gaze dropped again to the paper, to what to her was a marvellous likeness, only somehow more so. Yes, it was she on the bed, her nakedness artful and tasteful, only the curve of her backside visible behind her shoulders, her breasts mostly obscured by the tousled duvet. More than anything, it was the atmosphere that engaged her; she felt as if she were standing and looking at herself in the morning light, her skin glowing with reflected sunshine, the ripples and folds of the sheets, pillows and duvet in sharp relief. He had not been going for photographic exactness, but somehow this was more perfect, more real, than a photo ever could be.

"I'm pouting," was the first thing to come from her lips, which was unfortunate because it made it sound as if she didn't approve. Before she had a chance to correct herself, he chuckled.

"But do you like it?"

"Oh, Mark," she said, speaking over his words, tears suddenly overflowing onto her cheek, startling herself. "It's beautiful, how you see me."

She could tell he was relieved at her reaction, though tried he hard not to show it. He came nearer to her, putting an arm about her shoulders. "Careful," he said, kissing her on the top of her head. "No crying on the painting."

She covered her face with her hand as she sputtered a laugh through her tears. "Darling, I love it," she answered at last. "You've done me more justice than I deserve."

"Nonsense," he said. "I could never do you adequate justice."

"Shut up and take a compliment," she said with a smirk, turning to put her arms around his neck.

"Only if you will as well."

"Okay." She pecked a kiss on his lips. "Are you sure you didn't miss _your_ true calling?"

"Absolutely sure," he said. "I don't think any other subject could draw such skill out of me."

She made a dismissive sound, but was touched to hear him say it.

"I wasn't kidding when I said you were my muse," he added.

She lifted herself up onto her toes and kissed him deeply, then hugged him tightly to her.

"Mark," she said quietly. "We have to frame it."

"We can take it to a framer in London."

"No, no," she said. "Let's do it here so that it doesn't get damaged."

"I don't think Grafton Underwood has a place that can do framing," said Mark, "but I think I remember passing a framing store in Kettering. I could take it in the morning."

"Fantastic," she said.

"We can hang it in the bedroom." From the shy, subtle little smile on his lips, she could tell he was pleased by the idea of framing it more than he'd initially let on.

"Would you rather look at a painting of me… or me?" she teased.

"No contest," he said. He kissed her in the hair again, then sighed, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

"You sound sad, almost disappointed."

He made a sound deep in his throat, one she could feel rumble against her. "I'll miss that uninterrupted view." She chuckled. "May I have a quick glance, for old times' sake?"

"Was just this morning, silly," she said, raking her nails over the cotton shirt on his back. "Besides, you can see it pretty much any time you like."

"Any time, you say?" he said, the hint of a return tease in his voice. "I shall have to bear that in mind for future reference. Never know when I might need it."

She pushed away, regarded him with a broad grin. "Well, then no, you may not."

"Fine," he said. "I'll just wait until the next Law Council Dinner."

"You're naughty," she teased. "Though maybe those balding, upper-class twits will finally start to appreciate me."

…

He chuckled, then pulled her into a kiss. As for the view he desired, she relented when all was said and done, as she always did. The pleasure they shared did not diminish with repetition, for which he was glad. As he fell to sleep he thought with great delight of his errand the next day, hoped they could rush the job so he could keep it stowed away in the boot of the car for their trip back to London, and safely from view of his parents.

His excitement was, perhaps, the reason why he woke so early the next morning. He decided to allow her to sleep in, as she had been such a good sport about getting up so early for the past week, so went downstairs to make coffee and eat a pastry before heading out on the road to Kettering with the painting (still on the paper block) carefully stowed in a polythene bag.

The closer he got to Kettering, however, the more nervous he became about showing a stranger the painting of his wife, and though tasteful in every way, she _was_ naked. However, he knew he could not turn around and take it back to the house. She was expecting it to be framed, and it was not the sort of thing he could lie and say he had forgotten to do. He would just have to swallow his pride, his embarrassment, hand the painting over, and leave it to Fate.

As he entered the shop, a young man looked up and greeted him with a smile. About Mark's own height, with clean-cut blond hair, he said, "Here to pick something up?"

"No," Mark said with a nervous smile, shifting the bag out from under his arm.

"Ah, it looks like you've got something there."

Mark nodded, then cleared his throat. "I, um, need to have this framed. As soon as possible, if you aren't too backlogged."

"Let's have a look." Delicately the man pulled the paper block from the bag, using a folded square of paper to keep his fingers from touching it directly, and set it on the counter. "Well, isn't this lovely," he said, his eyes scanning over the painting. "And is this your work?"

He was not sure why he was so reluctant to admit to it. "Yes. It was a bit of a private thing between my wife and me."

"Oh, this is your wife?" He looked down again. "Lucky man. She's very pretty."

"Thank you."

"More importantly than that, you've got a very nice technique," he said, his fingers hovering over the surface as if he wanted to touch it, but he didn't. "Very rich, very layered. I'm sure you've done her justice."

"Thank you," Mark said again, feeling his face flush with heat.

"You're welcome. Pardon me." He turned and called over his shoulder, "Dad!"

A few minutes later an older man emerged; it was not difficult to spot the familial resemblance to the younger man. "Yeah, Gord?"

"This fellow here has a painting he'd like framed, but he needs it—" Gord turned to Mark, asking the silent question of when.

"Um, we return to London on Sunday."

Gord turned back to his father. "So what's your schedule look like?"

"Mm, I'm fairly caught up. Just some smaller things, a couple of pieces for the Westons—their girl Sherry's wedding portrait—and a custom job to preserve a footballer's autographed shirt. How does Friday sound to you, sir?"

"Friday would be fantastic. Thank you."

The older man smiled, then his eyes flickered down. Mark saw the moment his brows raised in slight surprise. "Lovely," he said. "Love the use of light and shadow. Where did you get this?"

"It's his work," said Gord.

"Really?" He did look impressed, if Mark was not reading too much into his expression. "Well, best separate the painting from its block. I can take care of that while you fill out paperwork with Gord."

"Paperwork?"

"What kind of frame you'd like: wood, metal, and so on; colour of the mat and how large of a border you'd like, if you want it matted at all; plastic or glass, with or without UV coating…"

Mark chuckled. "I never really considered the possibilities."

In the end, with Gord's guidance, Mark chose an ivory mat and a deep cherry wood frame with a bevel, a very thin stripe of gold about a centimetre from the edge of the glass, which he decided would be best with the UV protection.

"I think she'll love it," said Gord. Mark concurred. "If you'll just fill in your name and telephone number we'll ring you when it's ready so you don't have to come and wait."

Mark nodded as Gord's father emerged from the back with the paper block, which he slipped back into the polythene bag. As Mark accepted it from him, he said, "If anything comes up, if you need more time, don't hesitate to call."

"I've been doing this for forty years," said the older man, a pleasant smile spreading across his face. "I've never been late."

Mark extended his hand. "Pleasure to do business with you, sir."

"Please, call me Senior."

Mark smiled. "And feel free to call me Mark."

"Thanks, Mark."

Since the task had taken him so little time, he decided to make a side trip to a local shop for a little treat for Bridget, for having been such a good model. As he drove home, he became more amused upon deciding how he would actually give her the gift.

Once past the stress of strangers seeing his naked wife by proxy of a painting, the drive back was pleasant and seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and he enjoyed the bright summer sun and pleasant sensation of wind in his hair as he drove back to the outskirts of Grafton Underwood. He arrived home to find the house was still and he chuckled to himself. If anyone could make up for lost sleep, she could.

Instead of waking her, he penned a quick note to hang over the edge of the gift bag, then placed the bag on his pillow beside her before retreating from the room.

He was just putting some more water on for coffee when she came into the kitchen. She looked slightly perplexed yet amused. "Mark," she asked unsurely, "did you really buy a gift for my bottom?"

"Yes," he said in all seriousness. "It was such a good subject for painting I thought it deserved a treat, and what better treat than a nice pair of panties?"

She laughed. "You're very strange."

"Well, I'm sure if you ask nicely," he said, scooping coffee into the French press, "your bottom will be more than happy to share. Are you hungry?"

"Mm, yes please. Do we have any more of those apricot pastry things?"

"I believe we do," he said, heading for the refrigerator, where the pastries had been stored to keep them from turning mouldy.

"So you took the painting to Kettering?"

"Mm-hmm," he said, finding the last of the pastries. "Will be done on Friday. I think you'll be pleased."

"Can't wait to see it."

"They'll call when it's done."

"Oh, and we can maybe make a little outing of it."

"I'd like that."

…

Mark's phone rang while they were still lounging in bed on Friday morning. Bridget was surprised when he answered it, but when he advised the painting was ready to be picked up, she smiled broadly. She really was very excited to see it professionally framed and ready to hang. They were quick to rise, shower and dress for the day ahead, deciding to get some breakfast in Kettering before heading to the art store.

"Mr Darcy," the man at the counter said with a smile as they entered the art store. "And this must be your wife."

"Indeed," he said. "Bridget, this is Gord; Gord, Bridget."

Bridget took the proffered hand for a shake. "Very pleased to meet you. Oh, the picture surely does you justice."

She felt her face flush with heat, could only stammer a nervous, "Thank you."

"Just a moment," Gord said. "I'll get Dad to bring it out. Dad!" He turned his head to call the last part. "Mr Darcy's here for his painting!"

A faint voice called from the back, one that Bridget could only assume was 'Dad' calling back in acknowledgement. This was proven when, within a few minutes, an older gentleman appeared bearing the framed painting. He had grey hair and looked like Gord only fast-forwarded in time. She couldn't suppress a smile.

"Oh, the lady herself," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Gord Senior. Call me Senior."

She took it to shake it, skin flaring with heat again. "Bridget."

"I'm sure you want to see it, Bridget," Senior said. "Here you are."

He held up properly, and Bridget drew in a surprised breath, her hand reflexively going to her mouth. The dark red wooden frame with accents of gold in a thin line around the edge and the off-white mat perfectly presented Mark's work.

"I take it to mean you like it." Mark.

"Oh, it is absolutely gorgeous," she said. "Beautiful work, Senior."

He beamed a proud smile, puffing up his chest a little. "Thank you."

While Gord and Mark worked to settle the bill at the counter, Senior wrapped up the painting in brown butcher paper. "To protect it in transit," he said, sticking some masking tape down to hold the paper in place. "I'll put it in a polythene bag, too, if you like."

"That'd be nice. Thank you."

As he placed the painting into a bag, folding over then taping the top, he said, "I would really love to see what else your husband has done. He's got a good eye for this."

"Aside from some quick studies," Bridget replied, "he hadn't painted before this since he was a boy."

Senior seemed genuinely surprised. "Well, let's hope he does more."

"I hope he will," she said. "He works in a fairly high-stress job. I thinks it's good to have an outlet like this."

With that, the payment transaction concluded, and they offered their thanks again before leaving the store. Mark stowed the painting safely into the boot before they drove off. They decided to take a leisurely, more indirect route back home to Grafton Underwood. As they were driving, her mobile rang; Bridget saw that it was her mother, sighed deeply (at which Mark chuckled) and answered it.

"Hello, Mum."

"Bridget, darling, where are you?"

"En route back to Mark's parents'."

"Oh! When are you going back to London?"

"Sometime Sunday, I think," said Bridget, glancing to Mark, who nodded.

"What are you doing for dinner tonight? Come over for supper with us one more time."

"I think Mark needs to pick up his parents from the airport tonight." She saw Mark nod again.

"Well, then, tomorrow night! And Elaine and Malcolm can come as well."

"I… don't see why not," Bridget said hesitantly, "but we'll want to discuss it."

Mark, as it turns out, was perfectly amenable to having dinner with their parents, which she was not sure he didn't deserve to sleep on the sofa for. _But_, she thought, _we don't see them that often, and it's good karma._

Mark did not object to the family dinner the following evening, but reminded ultimately it would have to be up to his parents, who might still want to rest after their holiday. The Darcys' flight was due to arrive at six, so Mark thought leaving by three in the afternoon should suffice. They fixed themselves a big lunch to tide Mark over until his return with his folks. "You are charged, my dear," said Mark, "with cleaning up evidence of the crime." When she furrowed his brows, undoubtedly looking concerned, he burst into a laugh. "I mean the easel and the paints and the paper. Just put them into the closet in our room."

"Oh. Okay. Wait." She paused in speaking until he looked at her. "Don't you want me to come with you?"

"I thought you might like some time to catch up writing in your diary without me around," he said. "A little time alone. Not that I wouldn't want you to come."

She mulled it over. "Mm, you have a point, I guess. We're not joined at the hip."

He chuckled, reached across the table, took her hand and squeezed it.

"You'll drive safely, won't you?"

"Absolutely not," he deadpanned. "I'll weave erratically from lane to lane and drive too close to the car in front of me."

She pulled her hand from his and slapped the back of his playfully. "You can be such a prat sometimes. If you could call me when you get there so I don't worry…"

"Of course."

Upon cleaning up after the meal she noticed it was about time for Mark to head out to the airport. She took him into her arms and gave him a tight hug. "Be safe, you prat," she murmured into his shirt front.

"I will."

After a few moments of embracing, he pulled back and kissed her. "When we get back, we can get something to eat at the pub, okay?"

"Oh, you don't want me to cook?"

"Don't trouble yourself," he said, which she knew was code for "I'd rather you didn't burn the house down." She let it slide when he added, "Besides, our arrival back is uncertain. I'd hate for anything to get cold."

After another brief kiss, he was off. She thought it would probably be best to get the painting supplies away first. For whatever reason, Mark did not seem to want his parents to know that he'd taken up painting again. _He really can be odd about things at times_, she mused.

…

As it turned out, his parents were more than willing to go to Bridget's parents' for supper the following night. They arrived back to the house looking refreshed and relaxed, if a touch browned from their time in the sun.

"We'll be going to the Rotary luncheon tomorrow anyway," said Elaine as they tucked into supper at the pub.

"Don't you want to rest a bit after travelling so much?"

"Bah, don't need to," said Malcolm with a bit of bluster. "All that fresh air… invigorating!"

"I think they have more energy than we do," Bridget said confidentially.

Mark chuckled. "Sometimes I think you're right."

Upon returning to the house, his mother had small gifts for them: a leather billfold from Milan for Mark, and a beautiful painted silk scarf for Bridget. "You really did not need to bring us a thing," she said, pulling it through her fingers, then draping the brightly coloured scarf around her neck, "but I'm happy that you did."

"Oh, it was a pleasure. Think of it as a little thank you for keeping an eye on the place," said Elaine with a little wink.

Mark was about to say that the house was in excellent hands with the housekeeper and the gardener making regular visits, but at a pointed look from his wife, he opted not to say a thing.

"We are feeling a bit tired," Elaine went on to say, "and the luncheon's promptly at eleven, so if you don't mind helping us take our luggage to our room, we would love to turn in."

After taking turns pecking Bridget on the cheek good night, his parents headed upstairs. Dutifully Mark took one suitcase in each hand and followed closely behind; he admired his mother's ability to pack lighter than Bridget for a holiday much farther from home. After saying his own goodnights, he rejoined Bridget in the sitting room, where she had already poured him a glass of wine.

"Put them to bed, have you?" she asked in an amused tone, handing the glass to him.

He smiled. "Well, I didn't actually tuck them in, but yes," he said, then tipped his drink up to his lips. "One more day to enjoy the country before it's back to our own humble abode."

"Anything seems humble compared to this house," she returned with a smile.

"It's not so big that live-in staff is required," he reminded.

"Very true," she said. "I rather liked having the manse all to ourselves."

When they woke the next morning, it was almost as if his parents hadn't come home at all, because they were already up and gone to the luncheon by the time Mark and Bridget wandered downstairs. Mark figured it was forgivable to laze a bit more in bed than was the norm, given their holiday was drawing to a close. As a matter of fact, nothing of consequence happened for the rest of the day; he caught up on some leisure reading while she wrote in her diary and rang up her friends to see how everything was going in London, how their own house was, and assuredly making plans for the week ahead.

They then went to supper at Bridget's parents'. This was not in and of itself an earth-shattering event. It was after dinner, however, that Mark made a most exasperating discovery.

As his mother talked with Mrs Jones, as his father and Mr Jones drank scotch and bellowed with laughter, his eyes drifted over to the walls, covered with photos and other objects of art. His eyes caught up on one framed picture in particular, one he had seen a multitude of times before, and looked at it, really looked at it.

He realised it was a watercolour painting of the Joneses' back garden.

Slowly he rose and walked across the room to get closer to the painting. As he approached, he heard Bridget call after him, asking him what the matter was. He did not answer, only furrowed his brows and gazed intently at the hung painting.

"Oh, that!" said Pam, answering Mark's unanswered question. "You've seen that before, I know you have."

"I've seen it," he said, his eyes searching each square centimetre, "but never really took a close look. Did you paint this?"

"Don't be silly," said Pam. "That—"

"Mark, some more wine? Want me to make you some tea?" Bridget interrupted. His eyes at that moment fixed upon what they'd been seeking—the artist's signature—and, realising her attempt at diversion, he turned back to her.

"That's your painting, Bridget," he said, stiffly and somewhat accusatorily; the bad attempt she'd made at the start of their holiday had been nothing but a put-on.

"Of course it's her painting," said Pam, offended. "I know I've told you before." It was entirely possible. Mark had, after all, been guilty of tuning Pam Jones out on more than one occasion.

"I'd forgotten," he said, fighting a smirk. He could not truly be angry with her, though he intended on allowing her to think he was, at least for a little bit; after all, it was her deception that had prompted him to take brush in hand again, and he could not deny he had enjoyed doing so… and especially loved the results. "It's very nice."

"It's not at nice as—" She stopped suddenly, probably at the quick, panicked gaze he shot her. He did not want anyone to know, and he knew her next word was bound to be 'yours'. "Not at nice as some," she finished.

"Hmm," he said noncommittally. He turned back to the painting and regarded it thoughtfully. "It's true that it lacks a certain level of discipline," he went on, "but it's fresh, original and charming it its own way." He turned back to her. "Not unlike its artist."

Colin Jones burst out with a laugh. "Particularly the discipline bit."

Only then did Mark allow a small smile, which caused her to smile too.

They did not stay much longer, just had a slice of pie and some tea for dessert before the four Darcys—two by birth, two by marriage—piled into Mark's auto and headed into the night for the family home.

"That was a rather good evening," said Malcolm, his voice gently slurred by the alcohol he'd consumed. "Had rather missed the comforts of home."

Mark shot a glance to his wife. He knew what his father meant. He was rather looking forward to being in London again, in his own home, in his own bed. From the smile she offered, he suspected she felt the same.

…

"I'm glad you weren't really cross with me," Bridget said as they prepared for bed, pulling a brush through her hair. "I know you well enough to know you're a bit shy to try something you don't think you're good at the risk of failing and embarrassing yourself in front of even me. But I also know you can't resist trying to help me when I can't seem to do something."

"Very clever, wife of mine," he said, rinsing his toothbrush.

A smile tugged the corner of her mouth upward.

"Only one question still remains," he continued, a hint of seriousness pervading his tone.

"Oh?"

"Yes." He picked up the cup, took in, swished around, then spit out mouthwash with deliberate slowness. "Do I bring the paints and brushes home, or simply invest in a second set for London?"

It delighted her to think he wished to pursue painting in the future, and all she could do was beam a grin at him. "Either way," she said. "You've always got a model at your disposal."

_Epilogue._

Mark received three very odd telephone calls in the days, weeks, to come.

The first was from his father, which in and of itself was odd because he rarely ever phoned Mark directly. The subject of conversation would do nothing to make things feel any more normal.

"It's about you, specifically your wife. Actually, it's about June," he said, rather evasively considering he had been the one to call Mark.

He was utterly confused. "What?"

"June took your mother aside to express some concern."

Mark glanced to his watch; he just wanted his father to get to the point already. "Concern for what?"

Malcolm cleared his throat. "June inadvertently overheard a conversation she found a bit dismaying. Between Bridget and yourself."

He struggled to think of any such conversation. "What did she hear?"

"More of a statement by Bridget than an actual conversation, truth be told. Something about… well, blast, not to put too fine a point on it, being a bit sore from holding the same position for too long."

Mark was too shocked to respond, did not know whether to laugh or cry as an intense heat crept up from under the collar of his shirt. Bridget had been right, it seemed, about the dirty mind of grannies; clearly June had thought exactly what Bridget had said she'd thought.

Malcolm continued, his voice hushed but gruff. "I know you love that girl, Mark, but for God's sake, keep a rein on yourself, and don't overtax her."

Mark could not very well explain the misapprehension without telling his father about the painting. "You're absolutely right," he said quietly. "I am very sorry to have disturbed June. It won't happen again."

When Malcolm spoke again, relief was evident in his voice. "Good; good." After a bit of idle chit-chat—again, odd for his father—Malcolm made excuses to hang up the line.

Mark didn't mention this call to Bridget because she might have been embarrassed that his parents were involved… but selfishly, he did not want to have to tolerate her level of smugness at being right about June's interpretation of her words.

The second call came about a week later.

"Mark." It was his mother, which was not an odd occurrence; however, the words she said next catapulted it into such a category. "You owe me an explanation."

"About what?" he responded, taken aback by her tone.

"I ran into an old friend at the Rotary's rummage sale. I think you know him too."

He held in his impatience as he said, "Who would that be?"

"Gordon Whitcomb."

No glimmer of recognition at all in Mark.

"He owns an art and framing shop in Kettering."

Senior.

His mother went on. "He gushed on and on to me about a painting he said you brought in to have matted and framed. I thought for sure he meant another from an attic… but then said it was perfect for hanging in a show of portraits he's thinking of doing, even if it was a little on the risqué side, and would I pass that on, which I've done." She paused to collect her breath, in much the same way a storm gathers before thundering forth. "_Mark_," she said darkly. "What on earth is he talking about?"

He thought briefly about how to reply. "Bridget inspired me to take up a paintbrush again."

She didn't say anything. "And you didn't want us to see this why, exactly?"

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't answer my question," she said. "Did you think we would not approve of whatever it is that's risqué about it? Give us a little credit, Mark."

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I thought of it as something private between Bridget and me. If I could have gotten away with framing it myself, I might have."

She was silent for a few moments. "I didn't mean to climb all over you, Mark," she said, her tone a bit softer. "I know how much you like your privacy."

"Bridget's not wearing clothes in it," he blurted, looking around to ensure she was not in earshot. "But it's very tasteful."

"I can't imagine you'd subject her to anything distasteful," she said. After another pause, she said, "I'd really love to see it."

He smiled a little to himself. While he was slightly shy about the subject matter, it was something he was proud of having done. "We've hung it in the bedroom."

"Ah," she said. "Well, perhaps your father and I will make a day of it and come and see you sooner rather than later."

"You know we'd always welcome that."

"And… I don't know… maybe we could bring it back for Gord to hang in his show."

That, Mark decided, would have to take a lot more convincing, if for no other reason the shrill voice of Pam Jones would sure to be in their future. "That decision is best left to the subject on display."

When his parents came the next weekend and praised the painting for its beauty and subtlety, Bridget was less shy at the subject of possibly appearing in a show.

"Everyone will be clamouring for a Darcy original to hang in their sitting room," Bridget teased.

In the end, she agreed, and was more right than she could have imagined, hence phone call number three, from the show's curator:

"We've had an offer on your painting, Mr Darcy, at more than three times the estimated value."

"It isn't for sale," Mark said curtly. Then, out of curiosity, he asked, "Who's made the offer?"

"A… Mr Cleaver out of London."

Mark felt his temper rise. "Under no circumstances. Absolutely not."

The phone changed hands, Mark could tell. "Oh, come on, mate," said a new voice. Daniel's. "You could always do another; you've got the original, and I must admit I miss that lovely view very much."

"The thought of you leering at her, even through the proxy of a painting, makes me furious, not to mention physically ill."

He heard Daniel chuckle. "Perhaps on occasion I can come and view the original, then."

He wondered if Daniel would ever change, would ever stop trying to provoke him for his own enjoyment. "I'm glad you find this so amusing, Cleaver," said Mark.

"Same Mark, same stick up your arse," he said. "I can guarantee I'm not the only man, possibly woman, who'd love to put that image on their wall. Perhaps screen printing is the way to go. Mass market. And as a compliment to the fine work of the artist, I could promote it on the Smooth Guide."

"Don't even think about it," he said in an icy tone.

"Or you'll sue me. Or punch me out. Or something." He sighed over-dramatically. "A pity," said Daniel. "You could have made a mint."

He sighed, exasperated. "That would be at far too high a cost, I'm afraid. And you need to let it go already. You can't have her image just as much as you can't have her." With that he hung up the phone, then leaned to steady himself on the telephone table.

"Mark?"

He wondered how much of that conversation she'd heard. When he turned to look at her, the concern on her face told him she'd heard enough.

"Sorry," he said. "You'd think it wouldn't bother me anymore."

"Indeed," she said, reaching to take him in his arms. "Because I am yours, and nothing can change that. There is not a day that passes that I don't thank the entire heavenly host that Daniel broke my heart."

He hugged her in return, calming almost instantly. "In that case," he murmured, "perhaps I can sign what's mine. Right on your most attractive… asset."

With a laugh, she leaned back and playfully punched at his chest. He only tightened his embrace, leaned down and kissed her until she forgot all about resisting. He did not sign her backside; rather, he treated it with great care and tenderness. It was, after all, a work of art.

_The end._


End file.
